Ravens and Writing Desks
by o0whitelily0o
Summary: .:30 Screams challenge:. Some things were never meant to be, some people never meant to love one another. That doesn't meant that they won't get hurt trying. AutorxAhiru- Theme 5: Haunted
1. Theme 1, Echo

_A/N: This is my response to the 30 Screams challenge at the Livejournal community. Basically, each chapter is a drabble using one of the 30 themes given to you, each one including the theme given in some way, as well as a scream. The drabbles are supposed to be darker, angsty, or horrorific. I chose to accept the challenge for the pairing of AutorxAhiru, but other pairings like FakirxAhiru and RuexAutor will be very prevalent. Anyway, I hope you enjoy your read, and remember that writers live off of reviews. _

* * *

Fakir often went to the library before coming home, to read and learn and hone his writing powers in order to keep Kinkan Town functioning smoothly. Ahiru understood this, and true to her nature encouraged him to work hard. Usually he came home before dark, but every now and then he would fall into a lull and stay until very late at night. Every time, Ahiru waited up for him to welcome him home.

But when the clock struck midnight, Ahiru decided that he had been there long enough. Not that she was worried- he probably just fell asleep reading a boring book or something. Besides, he was only at the _library_, what was there to be afraid of?

After a brief glance around to check if he was coming, she locked the door behind her and started down the street.

Since the battle with the monster Raven, Fakir had moved into his own house, closer to both the lake and the library. Before he had turned her back into a girl, he had visited her every day. Now, between the time she spent at school and the time he spent working, they rarely had much alone time. It was a little sad, but she understood how important his job was writing for the town. She had no right to make it any harder for him.

The first thing that struck her as she walked into the library was how very different it looked from the daytime. The lanterns burning cast eerie shadows along the rows of books. There were no people here, and the silence almost felt ominous.

Ahiru swallowed the lump in her throat and called out, "**Fakir! Where are you?**"

'_Are you- you- you…_' was the only response.

Oh yes, the library was nothing like it was during the daytime.

Taking a deep breath, she started moving through the dimly lit rows of books, nervously glancing about. "**F-Fakir, can you hear me?**"

'_Hear me-me-me…'_

The longer she walked the more the shadows around her looked like dancing ravens. Every time the lights flickered, they grew and twisted and she could only think of how she had tossed around like a rag doll in those cruel beaks. And were those footsteps behind her more echoes, or-

A hand descended upon her shoulder.

"**QUACK**!" She screamed, though thanks to Fakir's writing, there was no transformation back to her duck form.

When she heard, "Be quiet!", her pulse began to return to normal. Turning around, she found herself staring into an irritated face- which, while not exactly comforting, was at least familiar.

"I- I'm sorry Autor. I was just looking for Fakir." She blinked, as if just realizing something. "Wait, why are you here?"

"I can't go home until the last person leaves. Fakir hasn't left yet, so I'm stuck here." He grumbled, pushing his glasses up his nose- somehow looking even more annoyed.

"Um, do you know where he is?"

"Last I saw, he was upstairs sleeping. I was just about to wake him up myself, but I suppose you'd be more appreciated." With that, he turned and started walking away. After a minute, Ahiru realized he expected her to follow.

As she walked alongside him, the silence began to get to her. But she rarely talked to Autor, and had no idea what to say to him. He reminded her a lot of Fakir, back before they had teamed up to help Mytho. Distant, often irritated, and very anti-social… the difference was, though, that Fakir acted that way because he was afraid. Autor just seemed to be naturally like this.

Sighing slightly, she accepted the uncomfortable quiet and kept following as he lead up the stairs.

"…I apologize."

Looking up at him in surprise, she asked, "Huh? What for?"

His response, stiff and almost defensive, "I was going to wake him up sooner, but I fell asleep myself."

She blinked as she worked this new information out. "Does… does he fall asleep a lot?"

No response, but it seemed more like a silent 'yes' to Ahiru. '_He probably just wakes Fakir up so he can go home…_' she decided, not quite sure why the idea didn't seem right to her. And… it might just be the bad lighting, but was Autor _blushing_?

Did… did he know that she waited up for Fakir every night?

Somehow she could not bring herself to ask.

Stopping suddenly, he pointed to a desk over in a corner. "Well, there he is."

"Oh- ah, yes." Following his finger, she saw her knight sleeping on top of an open book. Smiling fondly at the image, she started to walk past Autor, before pausing and looking up into his eyes. "Thank you."

There was no mistaking the red hue on his cheeks for shadows anymore, and he could not keep her gaze as he replied, "It's nothing…"

Giggling a little, she turned and went to wake up Fakir.

They were more alike than she had thought.


	2. Theme 5, Haunted

Every day, Autor watched the little duck walk faithfully beside the green haired knight. It was hard to put it together in his mind that this duck had once been a young girl, and also the prima donna Princess Tutu. He did not remember very well the days when the story had been controlled, but he had to thank his faint lineage to Drosselmeyer for the fact that he remembered them at all.

Fakir seemed to remember quite clearly- a fact that annoyed Autor to no end.

Sometimes he could recall dark hair and red eyes and a glimpse of a feeling that might have been love; Fakir could describe Ahiru's shockingly orange hair and blue eyes with no effort, his own deep affection obvious with every word he spoke of her.

Sometimes Autor could see this girl in his own mind, always from behind as she ran off to… to what? He couldn't remember clearly, but she had not come back. Fakir never really wanted to talk about it himself, so Autor could only struggle with the pain of his half-formed memories and jealousy over Fakir's clear ones.

But as time passed, he began to understand that Fakir was in pain as well. He could remember everything, everything that he would never see again. While Autor saw those red eyes in his dreams, he was never burdened with the depth of emotion that he used to associate with them.

He was allowed to forget his heartbreak. Fakir would never be able to. It was obvious every time Autor asked about Ahiru the girl, while the duck slept on Fakir's lap.

That orange hair… always in the distance, only running farther away.

What had he felt for that girl?

He could not remember.

One day, he asked why Fakir did not just choose to write a story about her, to make her a girl again. The knight's power had only grown with practice, so it would surely be easy enough.

But he had only looked away and could not answer.

Autor began to watch the small duck more intently than before. Did she miss the days of being human? Did Fakir think that she wanted to live as a duck for the rest of her life? Was that what he was worried about- that he would change her without her consent and upset her?

But he watched, and he saw her look longingly at the ballet school, at a pair of girls who walked by often (what were their names? Lillie and Pique?), and at her knight.

He could not believe that she wanted to stay like that forever- cut off from everything and everyone she cared about, no matter how close she was.

And maybe Fakir was starting to get to him, and he was thinking of that brief flash of orange hair and wishing that he could remember more than just that. Maybe he was confusing the knight's affection with his own feelings.

But did it matter? There was a story that needed to be written, and Fakir didn't dare to write it.

It was… scary. Autor had never really written a story before. He had tried, his half-finished attempts only increasing his desire to become a writer. And even if he could write one, what if he could not make it a reality? His connection to Drosselmeyer was weak at best, his broken memories only emphasizing that fact.

_Still_, he thought as he put the pen to the paper, _I have to try._

* * *

Hours passed, and when the clock read 2:37 in the morning, a faint scream could be heard coming from the direction of the lake. Blinking as if awakening from a trance, Autor looked down at the crumpled sheets of paper around his feet, and then to the one in front of him.

A story. _Her_ story.

Not wasting any time, he ran out the door, not quite daring to believe that he had actually done it.

Just outside Fakir's house, he saw her. That scrawny, awkward, fragile girl, laughing through her tears as she clung to a shocked Fakir. Neither of them realized that she was nude, too busy trying to comprehend the reality that she was human again.

Autor just watched for a minute, and he understood that he could not tell them he wrote the story. He felt no bitterness, not this time. Fakir would get the credit- he was her knight, after all.

For him, it was enough to know that her orange hair was more vibrant- more beautiful- than he remembered.


	3. Theme 3, Gone Wrong

_This was not the way things were supposed to be._

That mantra repeated itself over and over in Autor's head.

Fakir was not supposed to be dead. He was supposed to live a long life, writing good stories to keep the world in order, and taking care of the duck-girl that he loved. They were supposed to get married and have children, and those children were supposed to grow up, get married and have their own.

And, of course, Autor was meant to be the one who watched. He was supposed to be the best man at their wedding, the one they dumped the kids on when they needed some alone time, who became family by extension. The one who looked at his best friend's wife and wondered every now and then what might have happened if he told her that Fakir was not the one who turned her into a human again. The one who would marry a local girl with eyes that weren't quite as blue, and hair that wasn't quite as bright.

But that was the way things were meant to be, so he would have loved that girl and never have any real regrets. And if he could not keep himself from picking up his pen every once in a while… well, he was only human.

_This was not the way things were supposed to be._

This was all wrong. Fakir was so much more noble than Drosselmeyer. He wasn't supposed to make the same mistakes. He wasn't supposed to succumb to the madness that had swept the great author. His stories were meant to be filled with hope and possibilities. The Bookmen were supposed to leave him alone, satisfied that not all writers were sadistic or insane.

But somewhere along the line, the way things were supposed to be and the way they actually happened diverged.

The first sign had been months ago, when a little girl got lost in the woods around the town. Her older sister had gone off to find her, only to trip and drown in the Lake known as Despair. Her little sister had been found- her wailing cries were all the help the search parties needed.

_This was not the way things were supposed to be._

A boy fell down a well, and had died of pneumonia a few days after his rescue. His name had been too long and complicated, so his little brother had been unable to get help quick enough.

_This was not the way things were supposed to be._

A pretty little girl and her grandmother were devoured by a huge wolf. A woodsman had found them, and killed the wolf… but that didn't bring them back to life.

_This was not the way things were supposed to be._

The Bookmen could no deny no longer that there was another writer at work here. They could not risk him doing the same as Drosselmeyer, so they did not settle for cutting off his hands.

They went straight for the throat.

_This was not the way things were supposed to be._

It was all so bizarre- so utterly wrong- that Autor could not help but think that he was in a dream. Even when he opened the door to see the headless corpse, surrounded by cloaked men carrying axes, he couldn't believe that this was reality. It wasn't until later, when the sobbing redhead threw herself at him- desperate for someone to lean on- that he understood.

_This was not the way things were supposed to be._

And somewhere between her tears and his own, he screamed.


End file.
